Something that bleeds.
But I’ll never find out one way or another. Blood magic is forbidden.
CHAPTER 19
Having a familiar is creating some problems.
Besides the most obvious problem, which is that loose panthers make even witches nervous, there’s the fact that feeding a big cat is expensive, especially for a broke girl like me.
I mean, technically, Nero is often out in the surrounding forest hunting wild game—I try not to shudder at the thought—but that comes with its own issues. For instance, he may be doing so on lycanthrope territory, and that could have potentially catastrophic fallout. Not to mention that in the meantime, Nero would be poaching off them.
It’s all one massive headache, and it’s just easier if I can get him food from the butcher.
So I have to get a job.
I look at the bulletin board hanging in the hallway to the left of my house’s main staircase. Pinned to it are several job listings. I stare at them all like they’re the Holy Grail.
Before I lived here, I couldn’t land a single one of these jobs. Each one required a coven-affiliated witch, which I wasn’t at the time.
Now, however, I can do any of them—assuming they hire me.
I scan the listings. Someone wants a witch to enchant five years off their face. Another one wants a cleaning spell placed on their house. Still another is for some undisclosed need, but it’s printed on fancy card stock, which makes me think whoever posted it has money to spend.
Money I could definitely use, especially since I learned earlier today that the amulet I remade for Wards didn’t earn me that sought-after apprenticeship.
I jot down the number for each job post. Personally, I’m not sure I could lift five years from a toad, let alone a person, nor do I know a satisfying cleaning spell （my old apartment was proof of that）。 But I’m willing to learn, so long as it gets me a few extra dollars.
Another witch steps up to the bulletin board, looking at the listings. “There are never enough postings here, in my opinion,” she says.
I make a noise of agreement, even though what do I know? I’m new here.
The witch turns to me, and the first thing I notice about her is how white her teeth are. White and straight. Then it’s her perfectly arched brows and the way her hair falls in orderly loose waves. Witches are often striking in one way or another. Whether that’s a long nose, a short frame, odd eyes, frizzy hair, generous curves, an addled mind, a long face, a prominent birthmark, or—in this witch’s case—some pleasing symmetry.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” she asks.
“Not really,” I say, turning my attention back to the bulletin board. Technically, I’m looking for something easy, but I’ll settle for what’s available.
“So just short on cash?” she says.
I hesitate, then glance back over at the witch next to me.
I mean, yes, my bank account sobs into a bottle of wine most days of the week, but I don’t want to come off as desperate.
The witch notices my hesitation. “Sorry, I hope that wasn’t rude,” she says. “It’s just that…” She glances around, then leans in toward me. “There’s a spell circle some of us do every new moon that’s funded by a few private sponsors. It’s a little shady, but it pays well.”
That sounds very interesting and 100 percent not up my alley. Listen, I’m all for pushing the rules, but I learned my lesson about not messing with shady shit when I opened a warded tomb and let out an ancient evil who thinks I’m his dead wife and is now stalking me. And maybe killing witches.
A girl can only take so much trouble.
But…I am also desperate—both for quick cash and friendship.
“Thanks for the offer,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”
And then promptly forget. All for the best though.
The witch smiles back at me. “Please do. It’s an easy five hundred.”
Dollars?
I suck in a breath and nearly choke on my saliva. “I’m sorry, what?” Five hundred dollars? That has to be a joke.
Or it’s something illegal.
Probably very, very illegal.
The witch flashes me a secretive smile. “Our sponsors pay well.”
Seriously. Five hundred dollars is almost enough to make me throw my morals to the wind.
After a moment’s hesitation, my coven sister pulls out a notebook, and she scribbles something on it. “I’m Kasey, and this is my number. If you decide to join, you can text me here.” She taps the written number, then backs away. “Think about it, and let me know. Next circle is happening on Saturday.” She gives me a wave and heads up the stairs, calling out over her shoulder, “I hope you decide to come.”